She blinked up at me.
Those eyes. Christ, those eyes. They’d been haunting me for months. Blue and sharp and full of fire.
I wanted to see them glazed with pleasure. Wanted to see them roll back when I thrust inside her.
“I haven’t been able to get you out of my head for six fucking months,” I said. The pulse at the base of her throat picked up speed as I leaned in and added, “And I haven’t even tasted you yet.”
But I would.
Soon.
Real fucking soon.
I stepped back, letting the promise hang in the air between us. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, probably tell me to go to hell, but no words came out.
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
I turned and walked back to the table where I’d been sitting. Grabbed Christina’s journal off the surface, the leather worn and familiar in my hand now.
Christina’s secrets. Christina’s lies. Christina’s guilt.
All of it waiting for me to unpack.
But right now, all I could think about was Trudy. The way she’d felt in my arms. The way she’d looked at me. The way she’d tried so hard to pretend she didn’t want this.
I tucked the journal under my arm and headed for the door.
Stopped.
Looked back at her.
She was still standing there, frozen, her hand pressed against her throat like she was trying to slow her pulse.
“See you tomorrow, darlin’,” I said. “Same time. Same table.”
Then I walked out, the bell over the door jingling behind me.
Mine.
She just didn’t know it yet.
CHAPTER SIX
Trudy
“You’re being ridiculous, Nana,” Pati said from the passenger seat, adjusting the cake box on her lap for the third time. “Grace invited you. Shewantsyou there.”
The drive to the clubhouse wasn’t long enough for me to work through all the crap in my head about seeing Grace. I hadn’t seen her since the kidnapping. She never left the clubhouse, and I’d been too afraid to walk through the doors.
Too afraid to face what I’d let happen.
The sound of the glass breaking, the sound of Grace’s scream, the men storming into the shop and dragging them both out. Johnny and Indigo lying on the floor, blood seeping from their bodies.
And me. Hiding behind the counter like a coward.
“Grace is being polite,” I muttered, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. “She doesn’t need me at her baby shower.”
“She specifically asked for you when she called to order the cake.”
